Thoughts of Wind
by Niggle
Summary: Clark thinks about things after the storm postVortex tag.


**"Thoughts of Wind"**

He stood in his fortress, looking out over debris and half-finished repairs. Here he was supposed to feel safe, protected. He did not.

The wind scudded over the battered corn fields that it had thrashed so brutally the day before and came to touch his face, as if seeking to remedy its past transgressions. He shuddered at that gentle caress of hypocrisy, but he did not move.

He thought of when that same wind had been a howling wave of thunder in his ears, a crashing force that threatened to tear life away, a tempest that had ripped through his home and left it shattered. The wind brought change: swift, violent, irrevocable. He didn't like change; the status quo was strange and frightening enough. But it had happened. He remembered standing in that field after the tornado, Lana lying next to him, insensible. It had been quiet, the storm had passed, but it had left its mark in the trail of disparate garbage stretching across the land. It had taken the town, shaken it, and thrown it back down again, broken and jumbled. And more than property had been destroyed. Lives, dreams…illusions.

_I just can't wait for things to get back to normal._

It won't.

He had seen the dark heart of the storm. He had felt a power beyond even him. It could not kill him, but neither could he defeat it. He hadn't lost, but he couldn't win. There was only desperate hope and damage control. Never had the fact of his own limitations been made so painfully, blindingly clear to him. Lives could be lost and there was nothing he could do – except survive what they could not. He had been brought face to face with a fear deep in his soul and there could be no return to ignorance.

He thought of his friend, whose innocence the wind had taken. He saw him again, standing over the body, gun in hand. Clark knew he would have done the same thing if it had been necessary, but he mourned the price Lex had paid. He mourned and was grateful. But it didn't have to happen. No one would have died if only Clark had been able to move…

He had been vulnerable before, when he had been alone in a dark cornfield while a green stone around his neck reduced his world to a haze of pain and he had not known how long it would be before someone found him. He had felt trapped before, when Phelan had threatened his family in order to exploit his abilities. He had been scared before. But he had never been so utterly and completely helpless as when Nixon had put that meteorite in his jacket and started dragging him away from his father. Always before there had been some opportunity, however slight, of fighting back, of finding a way out. But the reporter had known his weakness and Clark's life had been in his hands. It was one of his greatest nightmares, being hauled off by some meteorite-wielding opportunist who would take him apart piece by piece. And he had almost lived it.

He watched the sun creeping beneath the earth and thought of his father, the frantic search, the hours of unknowing grief and controlled panic. It had been like standing at the edge of a precipice, knowing that in one moment, everything could be lost. How could he be, without his father and mother? They were the only family he had ever known, the only people he didn't have to lie to. He couldn't bear to lose either of them. And his mother's comments hadn't helped any. He knew, rationally, that someday he would have to face things alone, but it was too cold and empty a notion for him to dwell on.

He thought of the empty storm cellar, the settled dust and scuff marks on the floor. He was almost glad that the ship had disappeared, though the dangers of its absence gnawed anxiously at his nerves. He wasn't sure he wanted to know; not yet. Before, maybe. But not now. He had had enough of hard truths.

He could still see Lana walking back to her house, a tiny figure melting into the lengthening shadows. He sighed and turned his gaze to the setting sun. He had lied to her, as he had lied to so many others. And she knew it. He'd heard it in the slight edge to her voice.

_You can't hide out here forever._

He wanted what she wanted. He wanted to tell her. More than anything in the world he wanted to tell her. The forced silence took its toll. Having his parents to talk to helped, but sometimes he felt he was so full of secrets that he would be rent apart. But he was also scared. What was he supposed to say? How could he make them understand? What would they think if they knew the truth? And what would it cost them? He had already screwed up his parents' lives, no matter how much they tried to deny it. There was no changing that. Once they knew, they knew. But he wouldn't bring that on his friends. He wouldn't make that decision for them. Or was that exactly what he was doing?

He wanted things to be back to the way they were, not just before the storm, but before his father had told him the truth about where he came from. He'd thought that the truth was what he wanted, but in retrospect ignorance looked more attractive. But of course there was no going back. That was the irony.

He watched her slip through the screen door of her porch, fancied he saw her turn and look his way before she disappeared. Then there was only the sun, and the wind. He had said once that he couldn't turn off his feelings for her, but he had secretly made a promise to himself that he would do just that. When he'd made the decision to ask to Chloe to the Formal, he'd determined that he would focus on only her. He'd figured that through sheer force of will, he would forget about Lana. Anything else would hurt Chloe. Anything else was unthinkable.

He had been surprised at how easy it had been. There was something liberating in the decision. It felt free, and fresh. In a sense, he had chosen Chloe by default, because she was available where Lana was not. But Chloe was never a second choice. No, never that. He loved them equally: as fully as he knew how. There was no first or second; he simply loved two girls. And he had chosen Chloe.

Lana had been his dream girl for so long, it hadn't occurred to him that he could feel that way about anyone else. He had seen a part of Chloe that she rarely showed, a secret part, a part she shared with one person only. It had been gentle and slow, but new and exciting. Making her smile had started to become the highlight of his day; he enjoyed making her happy, really enjoyed it. And then it had all come crashing down. He had taken Lex's advice, and he still had neither of them. The breeze picked up and he closed his eyes as the memory swept through him, unbidden, chilling him as the wind could not.

_I think that it might be better if we just stayed really good friends. Anything other than that just gets too complicated. _

Shock, confusion. Then, denial, recovery. He had spent a lifetime recovering and concealing. Instinct guided his lips through the words while his mind reeled. Just talk. Get through the words. Don't think.

_Yeah, I think that's a good idea…_

It was because he had left her. And he had no right to ask her to put up with that. She had made her decision. Some people were meant to be alone.

_Our friendship is so important to me…the last thing I'd want to do is screw it up._

He agreed; he nodded his head; he said the empty words even as they scalded his tongue. It took every sliver of self-possession he could scrape together, but he did it. And then he fled, turning away before the practiced façade crumbled. He strode off into the woods, into the solitude that was his only release, where there were no humans and no aliens – just him. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground as his vision blurred. She didn't want him. He had thought he had seen it in her eyes, but…the truth was there, firm as the earth beneath his feet.

He had shaken his head, pushed it all away and lost himself in action. He had kept moving, looking for his father, concentrating on the situation at hand. But now there was no action to be taken, no lives to save. The storm had passed and he was left to confront the changes it had wrought. He could not hide from those painful meditations.

He raised one fist, eyes still closed. He imagined striking the wooden frame of the window next to him, imagined the satisfaction of watching a million splintered fragments burst from it and cascade to the floor. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to cry. Something. Anything.

He reached out and gently set his palm on the smooth wood, feeling its grain. And as the sun disappeared and shadow deepened to dark, he remained there, unmoving.


End file.
